There are two infinities that confuse me: the one in my soul devours me; the one around me will crush me

To be stupid, selfish, and have good health are three requirements for happiness, though if stupidity is lacking, all is lost.

There was an air of indifference about them, a calm produced by the gratification of every passion; and through their manners were suave, one could sense beneath them that special brutality which comes from the habit of breaking down half-hearted resistances that keep one fit and tickle one’s vanity—the handling of blooded horses, the pursuit of loose women.

It's a delicious thing to write. To be no longer yourself but to move in an entire universe of your own creating.

You must write for yourself, above all. That is your only hope of creating something beautiful.

Once one has kissed a cadaver's forehead, there always remains something of it on the lips, an infinite bitterness, an aftertasteof nothingness that nothing can erase.

Caught up in life, you see it badly. You suffer from it or enjoy it too much. The artist, in my opinion, is a monstrosity, something outside of nature.